The Patient
by honest iago
Summary: This is a quite different version of the Faramir and Eowyn romance, in the spirit of 'Lady Chatterly's Lover'. Not fluff, more tense and atmospheric hopefully. Interested? A work in progress, still... CHAPTER 8 UP, AT LAST! Criticism always welcome.
1. Lady Eowyn

Disclaimer: Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt.

Notes: This story is intended as a different take on the Eowyn/Faramir romance.  It

does not follow the development of their relationship as shown in the book!  It is quite

different, and has more than an element of 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' about it, so you

have been warned!  I was disappointed by the absence of the Eowyn/Faramir storyline

from the film, so I decided to write my own version, which is mostly concerned with

the emotional (and sexual) awakening of Eowyn from her cold state.  This begins

before she even 'meets' Faramir, as shown in this, the first chapter.  I mean no

disrespect to Tolkien by writing this story, nor do I wish to spoil for anyone the

beautiful original portrayal of this romance.  I hope that those of you who do chose to

read the story enjoy it, and please do review, whether you like it or not, and let me

know how you think it could be improved upon, etc.  I welcome ALL reviews.

This story is rated because it contains adult content, but it is BY NO MEANS graphic

or explicit, so you don't need to worry about that.

Thank you, and enjoy!

The Patient

Chapter 1: Lady Eowyn

Eowyn was restless.

She could feel the walls of her room start to close in around her.

This was not a new feeling, but it was one she thought she had left behind, when she

rode away to war.

She had been so sure of her fate - death.

A glorious, valiant death in battle.  She would have been at peace, and long

remembered for her bravery.  Instead her beloved uncle was dead, and she was once

more trapped in a gilded cage.  The houses of healing were beautiful and comfortable,

and she was well taken care of by the learned healers.  But now, though her body still

ached, her outer wounds were mostly healed and she had grown tired of lying in sloth

while she came to be fully rested.  What good would it be for her to be returned to

perfect health when it was too late to follow the captains Eastward and to war?

Eowyn did not wish to remain captive here if there was any chance that she might

catch up with the Armies of the West and her brother, and perhaps be granted her

glorious death after all.

Thoughts of her brother made the walls of the room start to blur before her eyes.  She

could see him riding forth, side by side with his good friend Aragorn.

Aragorn.

That very name scarred her mind with its bitterness, and it swiftly brought the walls of

her room back into sharp focus.

Deciding that she had to do something, else go mad, Eowyn strode to the door of her

room and pulled it open with more force than was required.  It felt good to move

about again.  She could not go outdoors at this time of night without being seen and

fussed over, but she could perhaps creep about the house without being caught.

Exploring might help to clear her mind so that she could make a decision about what

she should do.

Eowyn could remember well enough what the downstairs parts of the Houses of

healing looked like, and it was for this reason that she chose a spiral staircase that

would take her upwards and into the unknown.  She did not know how long she

wandered the maze of passageways, pausing only when she came across windows that

looked out over the vast, inky night sky and freedom.

In time she came upon a door which had been left slightly ajar.  The warm glow of

candlelight was seeping out through the gap.  Eowyn could hear voices from inside

the room.  Her heart began to thud in her chest as she crept closer to the gap in the

doorway, intent on glimpsing whatever might be happening in there at this hour.

She could scarcely breathe for the fear of being caught as she brought her face close

enough to peer into the dimly lit room.

Eowyn soon saw that she needn't have been so concerned.  All of the people in the

room were facing away from her, and seemed absorbed in what they were doing.

There was a slender man sat on a table in front of her.  He wore no shirt or tunic, and

his back was to her.  It was clear that he was the patient.  Three healers, two women

and a man, were with him.  One of the women appeared to be applying ointment to a

wound on his front that Eowyn couldn't see.  What she could see was a freshly healed

scar that ran down the length of his narrow back.  It was raw and pink against his pale,

taut skin.  This man had been very badly hurt indeed, and in a recent battle, that much

she could tell from his posture and pallid complexion, and the way the healers were

looking at him.

Eowyn knew that she should move before someone saw her, but she was strangely

transfixed by the sight in front of her.  During her short, somewhat confined

existence, Eowyn had never simply looked upon the bare flesh of a grown man as she

did now.  His arms were muscular, and his tousled hair, dark against his skin, fell

about his tensed shoulders.  The dark coloured breeches he wore were low around his

waist.  She felt as though she couldn't tear her gaze from him.  Though she could not

see his face, Eowyn fancied she could feel the warmth that was emanating from his

body from where she stood, across the room.

She took a deep breath and moved away from the door suddenly, for she was afraid

that she might give herself away.

Her heart continued to thud, even as she made her way down several sets of stairs and

gradually found the way back to her room.  Her mind was now preoccupied with the

image of that pale, naked torso, and though even in the privacy of her own room she

blushed to think of it, she could not rid herself of the thought.


	2. Footsteps On The Stairs

Disclaimer: Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt.

Notes: Thanks so much to all of you who reviewed; I really didn't expect that much of 

a response, it made my day (year?). I'm glad there are people out there who are as 

hungry for Eowyn/Faramir fics as I am! I love the characters and am just trying to look 

at them from a new angle. This Chapter is a bit short, but I hope you enjoy it. I've almost 

finished Chapter 3, and that's going to be a really long one, in which Eowyn actually 

'MEETS' Faramir. I welcome any and all reviews, bad or good. Thanks for reading!

The Patient

Chapter 2: Footsteps on the Stairs

It was somewhat earlier the next night, when she found herself making her way to the 

room again.  

All day she had thought of little else.  She knew her mind should be elsewhere, on 

more important matters, but she had no power to make it do what it should.  

Even now, as she climbed the final set of stairs as silently as she knew how, she didn't 

know why she was doing it, or what she hoped to achieve by looking through that 

doorway once more.  

And yet she had to.  

Her whole day had been spent in 

anticipation of this moment, remembering the way in her head, and wondering what 

sight might meet her eyes tonight.  She did not know what she would say if she was 

caught by a healer, or worse, the warden, as she had absolutely no excuse for being in 

this part of the building, and she had reason to suspect that it might be out of bounds 

to the patients on the lower floors.  But that just made her curious as to why the bare-

chested patient she'd looked upon in the dim light of the previous evening should be 

up there.  Who was he?  An important noble?  A captain of one of the surrounding 

lands?  And just how had he been so terribly injured?  Perhaps it was the severity of 

his wounds which had led him to be separated from the rest of the patients.  

Her mind was filled with questions, where the day before it had been full of 

frustration and grief.  The frustration and grief had been her torment.  Maybe this 

curiosity was better for her.  

Eowyn at last came to the door and again found it slightly open – another indication that 

guests from below were not intended to wander these parts of the building freely.  

She felt guilt at her invasion of his privacy, but somehow she could not help but peer 

into the room.  

There was no candlelight to see by this time, but the waning light of day that spilled 

through the long windows opposite her was enough that she could make out the 

features of the room.  It was somewhat larger than her own, and she envied the view 

from those grand, Eastward facing windows.  She could just see the bed in the corner, 

carved from a very dark wood and decorated with an intricate pattern of trees, much 

like the White Tree emblem of Gondor, which she had seen emblazoned on many 

things during her stay here.  The patient was in his bed, though she did not think he was 

asleep.  He lay still between the sheets, but somehow she felt that he was awake and 

thinking of many things.  She could not see him as well as she would have liked.  The 

fading light from the windows was worse than the light from the night before, and she 

could pick out no detail of his appearance.  His face was quite invisible, and the exact 

colour of his hair still escaped her.  Only the vague shape of his body could be seen 

through the sheets, and of that she already had some idea.  And as she had only 

seen him sitting or lying down she still could not gage how tall he was.  

Eowyn felt disappointed, though she did not know why these things should be so 

important.  

She was jolted from her thoughts by a distinct sound from the stairs behind her.  

Someone was coming.  

The patient also heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  He sat straight up, as if 

he'd been expecting to hear it.  Eowyn stopped breathing.

It pained her not to be able to stay and see what the patient looked like, but she knew 

that she had to move or be caught spying.  She swiftly light-footed her way up and 

around the next corner of the staircase, where she crouched in utter silence.  She 

hoped against hope that whomever the footsteps belonged to would go into the 

patient's room, and not continue up the stairs, else she'd be caught.  Her mind was 

already racing through the possible reasons she could give as to what she was doing 

up here.

But she breathed again, albeit very softly, when she heard the footsteps disappear into 

the patient's room.  Two women and a man mumbled out their greetings.  Three voices.  

The healers from the night before.

The patient said nothing in reply to their greetings.  How she wished she could see 

him now.  

Slowly and stealthily she crept back down the stairs, only to find that the door had 

been firmly shut.  She stared at it for a moment in disappointment, and then quite 

suddenly felt angry with herself.  

Why was she doing this?

She had no idea who this man was, nor did she have any reason to wish to know.  It 

was none of her business, and now was not the time for her to suddenly become 

interested in other peoples business.  

She began to head back to her room, this time making no effort to dim the sound of 

her own footsteps on the stairs.  Why should she care who found her wandering the 

corridors, even corridors she knew she wasn't supposed to be in?  Why should that 

matter to her now, when very little in life seemed to matter anymore?  All she really 

had to be concerned about was the safe return of her brother from war.  And what of 

her decision to try to follow the captains East when she could?  Had she forgotten 

that so soon?  She should be thinking of that possibility, not creeping about in 

corridors and hiding from view like a wayward child.  That was not like her.  Why 

should she hide?  Her actions were her own, and it was not for the judgment of 

others that she should be ashamed of them, if she was to be ashamed.  She breathed in 

deeply as she walked, and felt as though her old pride and stubbornness were being 

restored to her.  She was still angry, though she knew not who with.  Perhaps it was 

with the patient, for he had fascinated her and made her act in a way most unusual to 

her nature.  Yes, she did feel fiery anger when she thought of him, even though in the 

dim reaches of her mind she knew that was ridiculous – he had done nothing wrong.  

Still, she felt the way she felt and could not help it, and she didn't have to explain her 

feelings to anyone.  

Eowyn felt much like her old self again as she walked back to her room that night.  

The problem with this was, her grief and frustration were back too.  


	3. In This Dark Hour

Disclaimer: Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt.

Notes: Wow… I cannot tell you how bad a day I was having, (failing university, the usual), until my friend Charli pointed out to me how many reviews I had for this story. It made me feel SO lucky. I'm so glad other people share some of my opinions about Faramir and Eowyn. I'm so glad I didn't get hate mail for messing with Tolkien's version!  Thank you all so much for your kind reviews, they really do mean a lot to me. Although I do feel nervous now, like I have to live up to peoples expectations… Well, I hope I don't disappoint too much… I actually changed this chapter, after I read the reviews for Chapter 2, by splitting it in half, so it isn't as long as I thought it would be, and Eowyn doesn't fully MEET Faramir quite yet, but…well, you'll see.  It is different to the previous chapters.  If you don't like it, please feel free to tell me so.  Well, hope you enjoy, and I love you all!

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to the heart-stoppingly gorgeous David 'Daisy' Wenham, whose true loveliness (believe it or not) only really became apparent to me in the last few days.

The Patient

Chapter 3: In This Dark Hour

When Eowyn awoke the next morning it was from a fitful sleep, filled with unpleasant dreams.  

Mostly these dreams had been reliving the death of her uncle, exactly as it had been.  The same horrific injuries, the same kind words spoken to her in his last moments.  Eowyn knew that those words would stay with her forever, and she knelt beside her bed and closed her eyes in remembrance of them.  

Please, she thought desperately, remembering some of her other dreams, please let Eomer be spared.

Let him live.  

Let him survive this battle somehow.  He's all I have left.  If he was to die…

Eowyn was weeping before she could finish the thought.  

If Eomer died she would have no strength to continue with her life.  

Eowyn had been bereaved too many times in her life.  When she looked back on her past it seemed that all she could see was loss, from her earliest memory.  Her parents, her aunt, dearest Theodred, her beloved uncle…  

Eowyn didn't think she could stand another loss.  

Her mind was reliving moments from her dreams; the moments before Eomer was slain in some terrible way as he fought at the black gate.  

Then suddenly, and with great anger, Eowyn remembered that not all the dreams which had disturbed her sleep had been about loss.  

She had dreamt about the patient.  It was with the greatest irritation that she admitted this to herself.  

Eowyn had never dreamt about anyone the way she had dreamt of him last night…  The parts of the dream she could remember flitted before her eyes and made her feel decidedly uncomfortable with herself.  She breathed in deeply.  

How dare he invade her thoughts?

She was still kneeling on the floor, with tears of frustration glistening on her face, when the door to the room opened and someone came in.  

It was the young woman, Lucia was her name, who had tended to her every morning since she had been here.  Eowyn wiped her face and sat on the bed, hating the pity she saw in the woman's eyes.  

Lucia examined Eowyn's wounds and saw, with satisfaction, that they were fully healed.  

"Still, you must lie abed at least another week.  Your strength and colour have not returned.  The effects of the Black Breath are not overcome lightly.  My lady, I see despair in your face."

"That is not the work of the Black Breath."  Eowyn replied bitterly.  

Lucia was clearly sorry for her, and Eowyn scowled, looking away.  

"My lady," Lucia began tentatively, "I think I am not meant to allow it…  And yet I wonder if a walk in the grounds this afternoon might raise your spirits a little?  For I know that the Warden will be employed elsewhere for a time today."  

Eowyn blinked in surprise and gratitude.  

"Thank you, yes," she said.  

"Right.  Then I shall fetch you one of my own cloaks for the purpose, my lady."  Lucia smiled, and then left Eowyn to wash herself with tepid water.  

* * * * *

That afternoon Eowyn and Lucia walked in the grounds of the houses of healing.  

The gardens here were uncommonly beautiful, this Eowyn appreciated.  But as she looked at the well-tended flower beds and neatly trimmed lawns, Eowyn thought that this garden was a perfect example of the difference between Gondor and her own beloved land.  In Rohan, where everything was encouraged to grow wild and free, there was a simple, natural beauty everywhere you looked.  

Eowyn missed her home of Edoras, and its views over the rugged grasslands of Rohan.  

Only now that she had ridden away did she realise how much she loved the place.  

Whatever happened to her, Eowyn did not think that her future now lay in Rohan, though she knew that she would be the rightful ruler of the Mark, if Eomer did not return.  

She was awoken from the deep veil of her thoughts only when she almost walked into a tall man passing her on the path.  

For his part, he didn't seem to notice her.  His face was clouded – he seemed at least as absorbed in his own thoughts as she was.  She looked after him for a moment, as he walked on his way.  

"My lady?"

Eowyn turned back to Lucia, and they resumed their walk.  

After a while, when they had come to stop and sit down upon a bench hewn of white stone, Eowyn asked; "Who was that man we passed on the path?"

"Which man, my lady?"  (For they had passed several.)

"He was tall.  He had raven hair."

Lucia looked blank.  Of course, thought Eowyn, she could have been describing most Gondorian men.  

"There was a certain air of nobility about his face…"

"You mean the Lord Faramir?"

"Lord Faramir?"

"Aye, the steward of Gondor, and ruler of this city, for the moment at least."

"Why walks he in these grounds?"

"He was gravely injured, my lady, in the Battle of the Pellenor fields.  He was the only one of the company to return, and he was barely alive.  At first many believed he was dead.  His late father thought so too…"  Lucia trailed off, looking troubled.  "But there was a great rejoicing in the city when he began to recover.  It gave us hope.  For you see, my lady, he is a fine captain, and a fine man.  Did not you think him mightily handsome?"

Eowyn's face was impassive.  "He bears the same mild fairness of face as most Gondorian men."  Feeling particularly cold, she added, "Though he must be of some worth, if his recovery causes your people to hope in this dark hour."

Lucia looked at Eowyn with eyes that were suddenly shrewd.  "The Captains Boromir and Faramir have long been the hope of our people, my lady.  The steward's sons were both fine leaders of men and seemed the promise of a better future for Gondor.  Now Captain Boromir is dead, killed on an errand that was his fathers will.  That was a hard blow to us all, in this dark hour.  So do not underestimate the importance of Lord Faramir's survival, especially now that the Steward too is dead."  

Eowyn was shocked.  She would never have expected such a spirited outburst from Lucia.  The young woman obviously bore great love for the sons of the steward, and had great faith in Captain Faramir.  

Eowyn knew little of the younger brother, though she had heard Eomer speak highly of Boromir more than once.  She had often wished she could have met him, for he was reputed a great man and a skilled warrior.  

Eowyn felt uncomfortable, and she said to Lucia "I am sorry if my words offended you, I did not intend them to."  

Then, with thanks, she dismissed her, that she might walk in the gardens alone for a while.  


	4. Feast On His Flesh

Disclaimer: Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt. 

Notes: Phew, ok, sorry this chapter took so long to put up.  It is a pretty long one, and Eowyn and Faramir actually meet in it (!), and some other stuff happens… Um, and I did work very hard on it.  So I really hope you guys enjoy it.  I certainly enjoyed writing certain parts... Other parts not so much… I'm a bit worried that you might not like my interpretation of Faramir.  I worry about a lot of stuff like that.  I even worried about whether anyone would mind if I made Faramir have black hair like in the books instead of reddish hair like Daisy Wenham.  I still picture Faramir as Daisy when I write.  I guess it just seems important to me for him to be described as raven-haired.  Hmmm.  Anyway, remember that I appreciate all criticism.  Thanks a lot for reading.  Oh, and thanks so much again for all the reviews.  One day I will actually get around to writing review responses…    

Dedication: To Sean 'Seen' Bean, on-screen brother of Daisy.  As a fellow Northern Bastard, I can truly appreciate his loveliness and brilliance in the role of Boromir.  I think his was probably the best performance in FOTR (Yes, even better than Serena McKellen).  _Oh Seen, just because I love Daisy too, it doesn't mean I love you less!_  

The Patient

Chapter 4: Feast On His Flesh

_"Feast on his flesh."    
"I will kill you if you touch him!"_

_"Do not come between a Nazgûl and his prey."  _

_"You fool!  No man can kill me!  Die now…"_  

Her eyes were closed, and the bracing wind blew into her lungs and filled them, and she breathed deeply, as if to air out all her troubles.  

"Eowyn…" 

Eowyn was stood in a far corner of the Gardens, staring out Eastward towards the Black Gate, or at least to where she thought it must be, somewhere far off in the distance.  She was thinking about how she might break away from this place and be free to do as she pleased.  

However, the presence of another person was weighing heavily on her mind, and she couldn't keep to her train of thought.  

He was stood a little way off, a tall, raven-haired man.  

Lord Faramir.  

He too was staring out into the open space beyond the city boundaries, albeit in a different direction to her.  

Eowyn scowled.  

Perhaps it was the way Lucia had spoken of him, or the way he was intruding on her thoughts, or perhaps it was the far-away look he wore.  But something about him caused her to feel deeply irritated at that moment.  She glared at him, but he didn't appear aware of the existence of anyone but himself.  

That did it.  

Not knowing exactly what she was going to say, Eowyn walked up to him.  Only at the last possible moment did he turn his head to face her, squinting slightly, as if to say tiredly 'Yes?'

Eowyn was still angry, but standing this close to him she couldn't seem to remember if she had a reason or not, let alone what it was.  

He was a tall, proud figure of a man, with his tousled raven hair falling about his face in the breeze.  It was not like Eowyn to find herself speechless, but he had a commanding presence that made her doubt herself.  

Then he turned back to look into the distance once more, and her veins coursed with fury again.  

She would not be ignored by him.  

"Lord Faramir," she began, her eyes shining in defiance of she knew not what.  "Did you seek to interrupt my privacy in coming to stand here?"

He looked at her again, one eyebrow slightly raised incredulously.  She felt sure he would ask her what she was talking about, but instead what he said was;

"Who are you?"

Just as bluntly as that, although not unkindly.  

She almost faltered, but mustered enough dignity to say "Eowyn, of Rohan."

His apparent disinterest was infuriating.  

Looking away again, he said, "Well, Eowyn of Rohan, I have come to this corner to look out on far away places for many days now, and as I have not seen you in this place before, I did not realise it was reserved for your privacy."  His voice was tired but courteous, and it had a clipped Gondorian note to it.  

She did not know what to say to that.  She felt mildly ridiculous, and she didn't like it one bit.  She took in a lungful of air, and steadied her mind.  

"I am sorry.  This is the first time I have walked in the gardens.  I am afraid it did not occur to me that this might be the chosen thinking place of another."

She knew he was listening, but still he looked out over endless leagues.  He was staring North and West with eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.  

Now suddenly seemed as good a time as any to bring up what she had been thinking about a just few moments ago, _getting away from this place_.  

"My Lord, I heard tell that the rule of this city was yours, for the moment at least.  It is not my desire to remain idle in this city whilst others have ridden to a war in which I would greatly wish to fight.  I would ask you to grant me freedom from this place, to bid the Warden let me go."  

And even as she said it, it seemed a ridiculous request, and she felt like a child, too unsure of herself to go on.  For now she couldn't help but wonder if she really wanted to leave the fragile safety of this city and embark on a futile quest of her own, all the way to the Black Gate and into the beyond.

In a way, it seemed her only choice.  

What other path was there for Eowyn, shield-maiden of Rohan?

"The rule of the city may be mine, _for the moment,_ but I too am the Warden's prisoner.  I cannot do as I wish, else I would surely have followed the Captains into the East, and to war, but it is too late to do so now, and all who were left behind can do nothing save wait for death to come to them."  There was such depth and bitterness to his voice, yet it was not threatening, still retaining a civility that many had long forgotten.  "I fear I have not the power to grant you freedom, even if I did judge such a course to be wise.  It is the Warden with whom you must take up this quarrel."  

As she listened to his words, her grief and helplessness suddenly overcame her anger, and she turned swiftly away to hide her face, for she did not trust it not to betray her.  The pity of this man would be far worse than his indifference, therefore she must retain her appearance of coldness.  Tears threatened to sting her eyes as a distance came again between the two of them, and they both turned to look out once more in the direction that most preoccupied their thoughts.  

* * * * *

That night Eowyn paced up and down her room, glad that no one could see her.

She felt even more restless than before, and certainly more frustrated.

She could see the truth in what Lord Faramir had said.  She knew it would be futile to follow the captains now.  She had to stay here and be fully healed and await whatever fate was hers.  She hated being so helpless.  She had never felt so much at fate's whim.  

She had to stay here, now she felt more sure of that.

But she still didn't have to like it.  

And why didn't her window face East, like the window of the patient?  

She paced more quickly.  She did not want to think about the patient again.  

Meeting Lord Faramir had taken her mind off him, but now he crept back into he troubled thoughts, and she rubbed her temples.

She did not think she could cope with the irritation of both Faramir and the patient at the same time.  

Her restlessness was suddenly overwhelming, and she knew she had to do something.  

She decided she would walk around the houses again, her head held high this time.  

Why should she not walk about as was her will?

She was no serving-woman.  

* * * * *

When she set out, she did not know where she was to go.  She came to the staircase again, and after some hesitation, decided to go up it and see what lay beyond the doorway to the patient's room.  After all, she had never gotten much further than it, and she should feel curious about what was up there.

When she came to the patient's room, she did not look in, even though the door was slightly open, and her stomach was constricting painfully.  She kept on going, looking straight ahead and breathing steadily.  She got a little way up the staircase when she heard a snippet of a familiar voice.  

She stopped dead.  

She knew the voices of the healers by now.  It was the patient speaking, she felt sure of it.  Her stomach muscles tightened a notch.

_Go on, go on up the stairs,_ she silently cursed herself.  

But her feet wouldn't move.

She had never heard the patient speak before.  

Why should his voice be familiar?  

"I should think I am quite capable of washing myself, thank you."  

It was the patients voice drifting up to her, clear and calm and unmistakeably Gondorian.  

"Very well my lord, I shall return to you in a little while, though it seems against my better judgement to leave you, when you have all the makings of a fever."

"What difference could it possibly make, whether I am to be bathed in cold water by you, or I am to bathe myself in it?  I have the strength to do it.  I am no invalid."  

There was resentment in his courteous voice.  

"Sir, I've never called you one.  I take my leave of you for the moment, Lord Faramir."  

Eowyn's insides all seemed to melt into each other.

_It can't be him, it just can't._

But of course it was him.  How had she not guessed already?  The voice was unmistakeable.  

Of course it was him.  

Yet still Eowyn felt unsteady.  Her head was clouded and confused.  This was an almost typically infuriating turn of events, and she should have seen it coming.  Why did she feel so shocked and dismayed?

She heard the healer leave his room and descend the stairs.  

She stood stock still where she was for approximately two heart beats, facing ahead into the unknown reaches of the staircase.  Then, utterly unable to help herself, she moved swiftly downwards to the patients door and stood for a moment, faltering.  

Then in haste she peered around the doorway, her heart quivering and her hands tremouring.  

He stood there silhouetted in the moonlight, his back to her, washing himself with cold water from a shallow basin.  

Her heart had now stopped.  

She looked upon him, and her eyes seemed to devour his bare flesh.  

She could not tear her gaze away, though he was completely naked and she knew she should not look.  Strange sensations of warmth arose within her.  When her heart began to beat again, it was very fast, almost a murmur.  

The patient – could it really be Lord Faramir? – was tall and narrow in the pale light.  The curve of his back was smooth, and light shone over the globes of his buttocks.  

To feel this sort of heat was something new to Eowyn.  Her cheeks had coloured a deep red.  Her lips, too, felt warm and full.  The strange sensation she felt began in her bowels and tingled its way upward through her weakened body.  

Her mouth was dry.  

His skin looked so soft and warm.  She wondered how it would feel to the touch – perhaps rough, like a warriors weather-beaten skin.  For this man had seen his share of battle.  He was so very pale in the moonlight.  Almost translucent.  His hair was so dark against his skin.  

Eowyn felt something.  A longing…

He was turning around now, and her breath caught.  

Her eyes were torn from his muscular arms to a large wound on his chest.  It was almost completely healed, yet he would bear a terrible scar from it all his life.  Like a crevice, it ran under the left of his breast, a deep cut that marred the smooth, supple lines of his body.  

How strange and unfair that his face should be that of Lord Faramir.  

She had almost overlooked that detail, until now.  

Eowyn recoiled suddenly, slipping behind the doorframe, as a halt in his movements made her fear the worst.  

Had he somehow sensed her presence?

She made no sound.  

She was on the wrong side of the door, so she ventured swiftly up the stairs again, getting further this time.  She sat down on the cold stone steps, warmth seeping from her like milk from an upturned jug.  

It seemed that she waited there with baited breath for a long while before the healer came back to the patient's room.  Even then Eowyn did not dare to creep down the stairs, for she felt shaken and her hands still trembled.  Instead she leant against the pillar of the staircase and closed her eyes, the cool stone soothing her weary head.  


	5. Cold Stone And Flame

Disclaimer: Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt.

Notes: Ahem, yes, well, if you can just try to bend your minds around the fact that I have committed the heinous crime of not updating for over three months, and get on with reading the story… Oh ok, who am I trying to kid? Most, if not all of you, will have (rightly) gotten so fed up with the long wait for this update that you will have forgotten all about this story. All I can offer are my most humble apologies, and the assurance that I have been EXTREMELY preoccupied by many things during the past few months (boyfriend trouble, girlfriend trouble, regular friend trouble, sexy Irish Hitler trouble, and so on and so forth). Um, so if any body has actually been bothered to read through this note and decided to go on with reading the story, I sincerely hope that you enjoy it, and I really am sorry for not updating sooner. I hope this chapter isn't a disappointment (there is far less nudity), and I will TRY and get the next chapter up sometime soon. Did I mention there was a sexy Irishman?

Dedication: To all you kind reviewers who have taken the time to comment on this story, even during my three-month absence. Um, sorry…

* * *

The Patient

Chapter 5: Cold Stone and Flame

When Eowyn awoke it was to the feel of cold stone on her cheek.

Her body felt numb, and her mind was desperately trying to cling on to the last wisps of her dream. She had been a child again, chasing after Eomer, and laughing.

Her eyes stung for the bitterest of moments. _Please, Eomer, please live…_

She put her hand up to wipe her face.

_Where am I?_

Then the memory of the previous night assaulted her mind and she almost groaned out loud.

What had she done?

She had spied on Lord Faramir. And spied was certainly not too strong a word.

He had been so exposed, so vulnerable. A pale figure in the moonlight.

Eowyn felt guilt.

But not _too_ much.

That wasn't Lord Faramir, she thought, not really. Not that body in the moonlight.

It was the patient.

In that room, silhouetted in the moonlight like that he would always be the patient.

Still, the face was Faramir's.

And the sudden halt in movement had been Faramir, not the patient.

A fear as cold as the stone she sat against crept into her heart.

What if he _had_ sensed her watching him?

There was no way to explain her behaviour.

And what if a healer or servant had passed her sleeping on the stairs?

She would feel so lowered.

But Eowyn had never seen anybody come up this way, not further than the patient's room, and few enough people visited that.

_Surely, if someone had passed me, they would have woken me and escorted me back to my room?_

Eowyn stood, though her legs felt unsteady. Bright morning sun shone through the tiny slit of a window just above her.

She had slept here all night.

* * *

She spent the time before Lucia came pacing her room, considering the previous night from every angle.

Her mind was so swelled with thoughts; she felt it might burst open at any moment, and there was a strange and uncomfortable new warmth flickering deep in her abdomen.

Her head ached. She almost wished for the cold stone of the staircase to soothe it again.

But even thinking of that staircase, and what lay up it, made her heart tremour.

She was in a wretched temper by the time Lucia arrived.

"You don't seem much improved since yesterday, my lady," Lucia looked concerned. She put her hand to Eowyn's forehead. "In fact, you seem a little worse for wear… Is something troubling you?"

Eowyn merely scowled in response.

"I thought that yesterdays walk in the gardens might have done you some good. Perhaps I was mistaken."

Eowyn bathed in silence, while Lucia cleaned and tidied the room a little.

When she came to the bed, Lucia remarked, "This has not been slept in since yesterday… My lady?"

Eowyn simply carried on looking away out of the window in silence and slowly washing herself as thoughts continued to rage inside her.

Lucia was genuinely concerned now, but she decided not to press the subject.

Unfortunately the subject she chose to pursue was no better.

"I saw you speaking with Lord Faramir in the gardens yesterday, my lady. Did you not think him a wonderful man?"

Eowyn closed her eyes. How she wished that images of his body did not keep flashing through her mind. How she wished that she could not see, as clearly now as when she first looked upon it, the smooth curve of his back.

Pressing her hand to her forehead, Eowyn spoke.

"He seemed an impressive sort of man. His presence commands respect, though he does not seem to know it."

Lucia, not detecting the lacing of resentment in Eowyn's words, smiled.

"He really is a remarkable man, my lady. And as regal as any I have ever seen."

Eowyn was surprised when the word 'regal' did not have as much effect on her as she had come the expect it too. The word, as always, brought Aragorn to her mind, but the acute pain that usually accompanied memories of his rejection of her was noticeably absent.

She supposed she was just too distracted at the moment.

Casting about for a different topic of conversation, Eowyn settled on something particularly important to her.

"Lucia, could you tell me how Master Meriadoc is faring? Is he any better?"

"He is much improved since your last enquiry, my lady. In the last day or so, his recovery has progressed almost as much as your own. Such strength is surprising in one so small."

Eowyn smiled fondly.

"Yes, resilience is one of the many unexpected virtues to be found in Meriadoc Brandybuck."

Lucia, pleased to find a subject which could make Eowyn smile again, hastily went on.

"Perhaps soon you'll be able to visit him, my lady. I don't think the warden would object to that."

"That would be wonderful," Eowyn said, and she meant it.

How she would love to see her friend Merry again.

Ah Merry, she thought, enemy of all that is absurdly over-complicated in this world.

Looking forward to seeing Merry again could keep her sane.

When Lucia suggested that another brief excursion to the gardens might be possible that day, Eowyn, feeling a little better, jumped at the chance.

Anything to avoid spending the rest of the day with nothing save the obvious occupying her weary mind.

* * *

Something about the way the sun dappled the stone courtyards and warmed her face kept Eowyn's thoughts loosely on and around Merry, and other more cheery things.

She walked alone today, Lucia having had to tend to another patient.

Eowyn loved the weighty feel of Lucia's grey cloak on her shoulders as she walked. The material was course and inexpensive, but the white tree emblem that was so intricately woven on the back of the cloak in silver thread made the garment a thing of beauty.

Everywhere she looked in Gondor, she saw the emblem. The last attempt of a once-proud people to cling on to what remained of their heritage.

Eowyn could not help but think of the patient's bed, beautifully carved as it was with tiny trees. And she was irritated beyond hope that her thoughts had now led her back to _him_.

Scowling again, not used to not being able to understand her feelings, Eowyn turned right, down an already familiar path.

She immediately regretted it.

Walking towards her was none other than Captain Faramir himself, his own troubled eyes on the ground.

For a moment she thought she might be able to turn discreetly around and take a different path, but all such hopes were dashed when he suddenly looked up at her.

_Oh no…_

Quite apart from being annoyed with herself for even considering running away from him like a scared child, it had just fully occurred to her that this dignified man walking towards her was the same man she had spied on the night before.

_They can't be the same person. They just can't._

_It was the patient I saw last night. There is a difference._

And yet the flustered feeling she had by the time they reached each other on the path suggested otherwise. Her face slightly warm, she bowed her head sharply.

"Lord Faramir."

"Lady Eowyn. Enjoying the sanctuary of the grounds once more, I see. Much like myself. The pleasures of treading these paths are a great draw indeed when there are none others to be had. You are feeling a little better today, I trust?"

She looked at him coldly. His manners were impeccable, his words perfectly cordial, and yet the harsh, clipped tones in which he spoke suggested so much more. Anger, frustration, resentment, hatred of his surroundings. All were laid bare as he regarded her with those shrewd grey eyes of his. She felt strongly that the more polite his speech was, the less he meant it. She did not know if his anger was directed at her, if he was aware of her nightly habits, or if he was merely angry with the world at large. He had plenty of reasons to be.

"Yes, _thank you_, my lord. And your own condition? Has that improved at all?" She made sure that her words were as cold as the ice inside her.

"It remains to be seen. But I thank you for your concern." He inclined his head a little.

He was so infuriatingly calm and proper.

And yet there was such great heat inside him. It was a fire bourne both of the fevers that ravaged him, and of the great frustration he felt for life.

Considering that she had only really met him the day before, Eowyn felt as though she had known him for a lot longer. _But then, every day in this place is drawn out with agony_, she thought bitterly.

Finding that they had nothing more to say, they passed by each other and Eowyn's tensed stomach muscles seemed to heave a sigh of relief.

She turned momentarily to glare after his retreating back and found she could not do so without seeing taut muscles and a slightly arched spine under the fabric of his tunic.

This image did nothing to soothe her irritation.

She turned away again, and trudged on with unnecessarily heavy footfalls and a stormy face.

She was determined not to go to the patient's room again that night.

* * *


	6. Under The Shadow

****

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien the genius owns all, I own nowt.

**Notes:** Um, ok, so I said I'd try and get this chapter up sooner rather than later, and I more sort of… didn't. But hey, in my defence, I've been suffering from the dreaded writers block on this story for _ages_. Also, I've been at work waiting tables most of the time since I last posted so try not to hate me _too_ much. Ah well, this is a bit of a weird chapter as I'm in a bit of a weird mood at present, but I hope it's ok. It's sort of leading into slightly more sexy, action-packed waters for this story from now on, but if it doesn't live up to your expectations, do feel free to tell me.

Oh yeah, and by the way, I totally understand the criticisms of this story some of you reviewers have been talking about – for example, Faramir does seem like a bit of an arrogant, moody prick, as one of you so eloquently put it, but that's kind of because I'm changing the storyline of the relationship between the two characters so that it isn't just like what happens in the book, and to do that I'm making it so that Faramir isn't instantly enamoured with Eowyn, and has a lot of troubles weighing heavily on his mind that are nothing to do with her. For me, that's what fan fiction writing is all about; looking at things with a new and different perspective. I hope I made that clear in my Author's Note at the beginning of the first chapter.

Well, that was a pretty long note, nothing more to say except that I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Dedication:** Again, to all my kind reviewers for somehow tolerating the long waits between chapters. Thank you so much for all your encouragement – it really does help to get me writing.

* * *

****

**The Patient**

Chapter 6: Under the Shadow

**"Weariness, grief for his fathers mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath," said Aragorn. "He is a man of staunch will, for already he had come close under the Shadow before ever he rode to battle on the out-walls. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to hold his outpost. Would that I could have been here sooner!"**

She was walking through drapes of a sheer, flowing fabric that was blowing in the wind. She had climbed through the middle arch in a grand window that faced East. Her feet were bare, the stone floor cold and hard beneath them. Her breath came deep and slowly. She was walking towards the bed. It was carved with a pattern of trees.

Someone was in it.

Of course.

His hair was dark against the white of the pillow. He lay on his side. She couldn't see his face clearly, though she knew it was pale. The sheet that covered him was thin, and the air was chill, and in his sleep he looked cold.

She felt cold. The breeze from the window made her shiver. Her nightgown was not warm, though it shone white in the moonlight that was streaming into the room from outside.

The patient's body gave off warmth. She could feel it from where she stood. He was losing so much heat, with only that one thin sheet to protect him from the cold of night. The curve of his slender body underneath the sheet was beautiful to her. Her eyes caressed him in his peaceful sleep, and she breathed in more deeply.

Her hands, which were clenched into fists at her sides, suddenly relaxed. She moved to the bed, and held her right hand just above his back. Without touching him, she slowly ran her fingers the length of his body, always keeping them just above the sheet. Then she gently placed her body next to his on the bed. In the curve of his torso she curled up next to him, on top of the sheet, enjoying feeling the warmth of his body up close. She closed her eyes…

Eowyn awoke with a start. Breathing deeply, she put her hands to her head in frustration.

Another dream about the patient. This night was turning out to be just as restless as the last.

But now her dreams about _him_ were more frequent, and she felt immensely angry with herself.

It was as though she was betraying her very nature by having dreams about anything other than her uncle and her brother, and the fate of her people.

Reluctant to go back to sleep, though it had only been a few hours since she had gone to bed, Eowyn swung her legs over the side of her bed, and touched her bare feet lightly against the stone floor. She stared thoughtfully down at the quivering shadows her ankles were making and listened out for the familiar sounds of the infirmary at night.

* * *

Elsewhere in the houses of healing, the patient's sleep was anything but peaceful.

Captain Faramir was turning restlessly, over and over. His body was once again wracked with the fever that had consumed him ever since his wounds on the fields of battle. Ever since his father had tried to set a very real fire in his flesh…

And his mind… 

The young Captains mind was consumed, and that was much, much worse.

If his waking mind was troubled, it was nothing to his dreaming state.

His dreams were flames and spears and drums, and horses shrieking into the night.

And a certain place he would always look to, far away from here and apart from all these troubles.

That was the worst of it all, those visions of a far away place in which he would never set foot, and a wrong he could never set right…

* * *

Eowyn walked through the deserted houses of healing, hating herself for her weakness, but at the same time half not caring anymore. She knew where she was going, and she did not try to deny it to herself. Nor did she let herself think about what she might find, what might happen when she arrived at his doorway on this warm night. She only knew that she _had _to go. She was driven by something inside her that she couldn't completely understand.

Had it really only been this afternoon when she had vowed not to go to the room again that night?

She almost ran up the staircase, unable to account for her sense of urgency.

When she reached the door she very nearly flung it open, but instead stopped to catch her breath, and in the next instant she was very glad she had.

The door was closed, but she could hear snatches of voices she recognised – _the healers_.

Forcing herself to steady her breathing, she pressed her ear to the door and listened.

"…understand that his condition is worsening?"

"…do not understand it… has been making good progress since Lord Aragorn saw him… thought he was well on his way…"

"The effects of the black breath are not fought off lightly… remember what Lord Aragorn said… he had passed under the shadow long before any of this…"

Eowyn drew back from the door in shock.

Faramir's condition _worsening_?

How could that be? She had seen him that very day, and he had seemed in perfectly good health, if troubled…

No, wait… That heat… 

Eowyn had _felt_ that tremendous heat inside him. He had been frustrated, angry almost…

And now his condition had lapsed back into dangerous territory.

She couldn't quite quell the quiet sensation of alarm that gently but firmly gripped her.

The way the healers had spoken, their slow, anxious voices ringing through her like a warning klaxon…

Her worry surprised her. Perhaps that was what was alarming her most of all, how much worry she felt for this once proud but now broken man who could not seem to throw off the demons that plagued him and get better.

She pressed her ear to the door one more, holding her breath, and heard…

"He has lost too much – what does he have left to cling to? Why should he desire to get better? The downfall of his father, the death of his best friend in battle… and above all, the loss of his brother…"

One again, Eowyn drew back, feeling dazed.

She crept further up the staircase and sank down into the now familiar spot, around the corner and out of site of the room. She rested her head on the stonework and welcomed its coldness like an old friend. Her eyes were closed, yet tears still threatened to spill over their lids.

Her emotions conflicted with each other until she could barely make sense of them, though she knew that part of this turmoil was pity for _him_.

She recognised now, as she never had before, the similarity in their life experience. The losses, the sense of duty from an unhealthily early age, their paths leading them to _this_ battle, _this_ war… Being denied the chance of a glorious death in the East… Being trapped here, suspended in misery and angst.

But he had suffered what she had not.

The thing she now feared most of all.

The fall of his brother, futile and far away, meaningless…

Oh how she feared the loss of Eomer. It was a desperate, iron-cold fear, constantly gripping at her heart, making her earlier distress at Aragorns rejection seem pale indeed by comparison. Eowyn felt guilt – she had pined for Aragorn's love, dismissing everything else as a secondary concern, she had taken her brothers love for granted, not to mention the love of her uncle.

Oh, but if I was only given another chance, I would not make the same mistake again…

Eowyn wept quietly into the palms of her hands, her heart heavy with despair.

It was sometime later when she heard the sound of the door opening, and the three healers descending the stairs.

Eowyn took deep, steadying breaths and dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightshirt.

Slowly, she stood and step by faltering step, rounded the corner to look upon the doorway.

She almost cried out in alarm when she saw an unexpected figure stood on the stairway directly below her, closing over the door with some difficulty as she was carrying in her arms a basin of water and a bundle of cloths.

Eowyn recognised Lucia's tired, worried face at once, and clasping her hand to her mouth, she stepped back into the shadows, her heart skipping beats in her chest.

About to follow the healers down the stairs, Lucia hesitated.

Clearly she had heard something.

Not daring to breathe, Eowyn pressed herself against the central stone pillar of the staircase as Lucia turned to peer in her direction.

To Eowyn's immense relief, Lucia evidently found nothing amiss, because she presently turned back around and started down the stairs with her heavy load.

Eowyn sagged against the stonework, filling her lungs with soothing air.

Now she was faced with her own indecision.

Should she go back to her room? Spend a safe but restless night free from the fear of discovery?

Or should she stay, venture into the patient's room as she so longed to do, in spite of the risk?

Her heart knew the sensible choice, and her head tried to make her feet obey it and walk away, down the stairs, away from that door and all that lay beyond.

But try as she might, she just couldn't make herself move.

She rested her head against the heavy wooden door for a moment, just a moment, and took a deep breath.

The deep breath before the plunge… 

Eowyn opened the door, slowly, carefully…

She stepped tentatively into the room, hands trembling slightly, her eyes caught first by the huge, impressive windows, doorways to the brilliant starlit night outside.

Then her eyes went to the bed, where _he_ lay, tossing and turning, sweat beading on his noble brow, white sheets clinging to his clammy skin, hair dark and dishevelled, face contorted in anguish.

Silently she closed the door behind her, and crept closer to the bed, stopping at a respectful distance away to regard his sleeping form.

She was struck then by just how _different_ they were, despite the similarities in their present situations she had earlier acknowledged.

Here he was, consumed with fever, a cloying heat that endangered his very life.

And her… She was so _desperately_ cold inside, frozen almost, with what often felt like ice water coursing through her veins instead of warm, living blood.

Her eyes felt damp again. How she longed to reach out to touch him, to be warmed by the fire within him. The realisation of that longing made her feel vulnerable, frightened, like a child.

In her dream she had lain down beside him on that beautifully carved bed, but here and now, no matter how much she wanted to, she did not dare.

Adding her worry for the patient's well being to her already lengthy list of troubles, Eowyn sat, crouched down on the floor at the foot of his bed, leaning her back against the carved wood.

She rested her head on her knees, which she had brought up to her chest, and realised suddenly how remarkably tired she felt…

* * *


	7. Over The Threshold

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns everything. I own nothing.

**Notes:** I know, I know, I suck. I've really lost my way with this story, hence the simple task of writing a whole chapter takes an excruciatingly long time. Not helped by real life getting in the way of course, but it's never good to dwell on that whole business. Anyway, sorry for being an unreliable author, and I hope this chapter isn't too much of a disappointment after the long wait. It's a bit of a strange one, sorry if it seems disjointed. I just wanted to get it up in the end. As ever, thanks for all your reviews, and I hope you keep reading.

**Dedication:** To **quillon**, and anyone else who's ever e-mailed me about the story. I appreciate it.

* * *

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**The Patient**

**Chapter 7: Over the Threshold**

Eowyn swam to consciousness as the morning sun dappled her hunched form.

Before she even opened her eyes, she knew there was something wrong.

She was in an upright position, with her back propped against something hard and uncomfortable.

She wasn't in her bed…

This wasn't even _her_ room.

Her brain was still thick with sleep and confusion, but there was a deep uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach that was waking her up quickly.

She snapped to full attention at the sound of movement by the window, and turned to see a figure outlined by daylight.

Standing bolt upright, facing away from her, hands clenched behind his back. The patient.

Damn.

She could tell by his posture that he knew she was awake.

_Damn._

She closed her eyes and tried to focus on thinking up any reason she could offer as to why she was here, in his room, on the floor at the foot of his bed, having just woken up. It was essential that she think up some excuse…

Even as she cursed herself she felt anger at him rise deep within her.

She knew that he was entirely within his rights to stand there with his back to her and be furious. He had woken from a long, feverish night to find her, an intruder, asleep inches away from his bed. She had invaded his privacy with no good reason.

She knew _she_ would be furious, had he intruded upon her.

Eowyn felt her stomach lurch uneasily as she searched her thoughts.

Why _had_ she stayed here?

She had been… _worried_ about him. He had looked so desperately ill last night. The healers hushed tones had been under laid with deep fear for him.

And she had been tired, upset and confused…

Last nights mindset, the one which had led her in here and left her stranded, seemed foreign to her now, and incomprehensible.

Eowyn couldn't quite believe her own foolishness.

It was almost a relief when his voice tore her from her dismay.

"I can only assume that the lady of Rohan believes it her right to wander wherever she wishes in another's city. Even when that leads her into the private rooms of sick men." His voice was like the crack of a whip. He was so naturally articulate that his speech could sound like a weapon.

She could _hear_ his fists clenching.

So he _was_ angry.

Of course he was angry.

"But why, I wonder, should you want to come all the way up here to these quarters? What peace could you find here, that you could not have found in your own room? I confess myself to be at a loss."

He turned around, visibly seething, yet she was amazed to find herself relieved at his appearance. He looked steadier somehow, his skin was less clammy and his eyes were focused. Even his anger was a good sign. He had regained enough of his strength to be angry. His condition was improving again.

"But then, perhaps the lady of Rohan isn't to be questioned about such things. Perhaps she doesn't have to explain herself."

Eowyn knew she didn't have a leg to stand on, but she could still feel her own temper coil at his words.

"I'm surprised that you do not wish to defend yourself."

He was trying to get a rise out of her, to get her to say something – anything – to explain herself.

And so she found her voice.

"I'm sorry." The rage within her had no direction, no way to manifest itself save in the shaking of her hands.

"I am sorry for the intrusion. I assure you, it will not happen again."

Eowyn was standing now, smoothing down her clothing stiffly. Her movements had become regimented, the soldier in her taking control of her body, so that she might escape the room unscathed.

Faramir's lip curled almost imperceptively, and she understood why. He was searching for an explanation, and all she had offered was an apology.

Unable to bear his scrutiny any longer, she found herself crossing to the door, painfully slowly. Even now, she could not give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat hastily.

She made it to the stairs, still cursing herself. She was out of his view now, free of him.

One at a time, she descended the stairs, deliberate and careful, not wanting to jar herself from the numbing fog that had enveloped her brain.

Eowyn wanted nothing more than to lie down for a further few hours of sleep. She was so tired, and she definitely didn't want to _think_.

All she ever did now was fret and sleep.

It seemed an age since she had been a warrior, and constantly occupied. In reality, it was no time at all…

How long _had_ she been here?

Was it days? Weeks?

She honestly didn't know.

Lucia was always telling her that she needed lots of bed rest in order to fully recover her strength. It suddenly seemed like excellent advice, as she lowered herself into her bed and let her mind drift into nothingness.

* * *

That evening, as the sun sank lower in the sky, Eowyn had a strong sense of a clock, ticking. She had spent the day resting, for once a model patient, and was still unable to make any sense of her actions the night before. She had grown increasingly weary of cursing herself for her behaviour, and now she peeled off her single layer of clothing in frustration. 

She stood there in the windows waning light, naked and still, looking out on the world.

Then Eowyn lay down on her white bed, not bothering to cover herself with the sheets, enjoying the sudden evening breeze on her bare skin.

She closed her eyes, and covered them with her hand.

No. She couldn't bear it.

In one fluid motion Eowyn sprang from the bed and hastily took a cotton nightshirt from her dresser.

She buttoned it so quickly and clumsily that her fingers stumbled over one another, trembling. She hardly knew what she was doing.

Crossing swiftly to the door, Eowyn slipped through it and ran to the stairs.

* * *

Faramir stood in his breeches, resting his head against the pillar of one of his grand windows, not really looking at the view. 

All day he had rocked violently back and forth between being infuriated and being intrigued. He couldn't set his mind on anything but _her. _

Her eyes had been so wide with shock and dismay when he'd turned to face her.

Why had she come?

Had she been before?

When the healers had arrived to tend to him that morning he had sent them away in a fierce bout of irritation, probably not the wisest course of action, considering his poor health of late.

At that moment, every single one of his muscles was tensed, coiled, ready.

_Ready for what?_

She _won't_ come again tonight.

She won't.

Still, he knew he'd never get to sleep that night.

He felt too alert, too charged.

A jolt ran through him as he heard the faint sound of bare feet on the stairs below. His fingers gripped at the stone pillar so tightly as to turn his knuckles white, and with baited breath, he waited.

Then a prickly sensation crept up his spine.

He knew without turning that she would be in the doorway.

His gut was on fire.

Her ragged breathing from across the room matched his own.

When he turned to look at her he felt intoxicated.

He saw her stood there, unsure of herself, bare feet, uneven nightshirt, hugely dilated pupils.

His throat was dry, and, worse, he could feel his nipples stiffen at the sight of her.

In an instant he was striding across the room at a pace which clearly alarmed her, he heard her sharp intake of breath.

Impossibly, her eyes widened further as he neared her.

He dropped to his knees before her, and directly pressed his face against a large chink in the fabric of her nightshirt, where her hands had moved so rapidly they had missed out several buttons at once.

She gasped violently at the feel of his hot cheek against the cool, smooth marble of her belly.

But she did not recoil.

She couldn't move, she was frozen to the spot.

Her every nerve-end tingled with sensation as the warmth of his rough face spread across her middle.

Her thighs involuntarily slackened.

He seemed to be breathing her in. His arms sprang up around her waist to steady himself.

She found her own hands gripping his shoulders.

Her perception had narrowed to one single point.

The point where his cheek touched her bare skin.

For a time it was all she could feel.

Then everything else came creeping back in on her.

She opened her eyes and pushed at his shoulders, making him look up at her with a puzzled expression, as though he'd just woken up. She pushed him away from her roughly, and left the room as abruptly as she'd entered it.

She did not remember the journey back to her own room. It seemed to pass by in an instant. She closed the door behind her and tore off her nightshirt immediately.

She moved to the cabinet which held a basin of water and she began to bathe herself, slowly, deliberately drawing the damp cloth over her tingling skin. The cool, dark night air surrounded her as she drew the cloth across the pert, heavy bulk of her breasts, strange sensations coiling and writhing between her thighs.

The cloth now rested tenderly on her stomach where he had touched her,and her breathing became laboured. Such things he had awoken in her…

She didn't _want_ to feel them.

Eowyn hadn't known it was possible to feel this sort of intensity throughout her body, her bowels quivering with the fire of his touch, the memory of his arms about her waist…

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	8. To Amon Hen

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien owns everything. I own nothing. Or, if you prefer, ME: zero. TOLKIEN: lots.

**Notes:** SORRY FOR THE UNFORGIVABLY LONG WAIT…

But I've had nothing to put up except utter tripe that wasn't good enough and didn't keep with the spirit of the story. I'm finding it really hard to come up with anything halfway decent for the plot, and that's the truth. I really do want to continue this, and I don't like to leave you readers dangling, but I don't want to stick up any soppy old mush that pops into my head, either.

_(the sound of a tiny violin...)_

Thanks so much for all the reviews. I really do appreciate it, even the criticism. : ) In response to some of your queries, the reason that I had the admittedly weird 'thing' of Faramir putting his cheek to Eowyn's stomach in the last chapter, instead of touching her face or something, is that I have been envisioning the scene that way pretty much since I started writing the story. I know it's bizarre. I guess I was trying to emulate that scene in 'The Piano', where Harvey Keitel puts his finger to the hole in Holly Hunter's tights as she plays. It's like he found the gap in her defences and made that unexpected connection with her. I love that sort of thing. I'm not saying it works well in this story. I just wanted to try it. I love strange, twisted, original approaches to human relationships. I'm weird like that.

So, here's an odd chapter as we jump back into the story – not a lot happens, and entirely from Faramir's point of view. I'd love some feedback on this precisely because it has been so long, and I'd also love thoughts on the direction of the chapter, Faramir, etc...

Thanks, if you still have the patience to be reading this… H.I.

* * *

**The Patient**

**Chapter 8: To Amon Hen**

Faramir awoke the next day feeling oddly… rested.

He washed and dressed early, and with the permission of the healers, who were pleased with his progress, he went straight into the gardens after eating as much as his weakened stomach would allow.

He was pleased to find the space uncommonly deserted at this hour. The sky was cloudy this morning, but bright, and he headed to the only place he ever wanted to be out here.

The space just beside the wall, facing North West, where he would stand and look out across the plains for hours. He had stood here almost every day since he had been at the mercy of the healers.

Most who were confined here found a place where they could look out toward the East, to Mordor, and to the great conflict which might even now be raging on. It was understandable. The fate of them all, and all the land rested on the outcome of events in that direction. But Faramir didn't care to look that way very often. It seemed to him like the fate of Middle Earth had already been decided. Too many were lost, the enemy was too great, and so much rested on a noble few. Noble, but inevitably doomed.

Faramir had sent Sam and Frodo on their way because he believed it to be the right thing to do, not because he thought they would succeed. They were both courageous and stout-hearted, and he saw Mithrandir's wisdom in sending the Halflings, who would not be swayed from their task, nor easily corrupted by the power they held. Still, it was a hopeless errand, one too great for anyone to succeed in.

If Boromir had been destroyed by the ring, then it could destroy anything – _would _destroy _everything._

Faramir knew his brothers flawed nature, and he knew the pressure their father had placed on Boromir to bring back a weapon that could save their lands. But he also knew that nothing but the very greatest evil could have plunged Boromir into such turmoil. To have attacked Frodo, attacked a _halfling_…

Faramir had often tried to picture the events that must have lead to his brother's eventual demise at the hands of foes so unworthy of him… But surely, ultimately, at the hands of the ring itself?

And there it was.

Boromir's death. No wave of destruction from the East, certain as it seemed, could ever hold in it half the devastation that the death of his elder brother had caused Faramir. Sometimes he felt that he had nothing left to fear, and so he was calm and sedate, visiting this same spot every day to look North West. It was as though he could now see through the mountains and follow the River Anduin up, up, past Rauros Falls and to Amon Hen, to the spot where Boromir had finally fallen.

What was left of Minas Tirith was nothing to him now. He felt none of the deep pride and fierce protectiveness which he had always felt before for his home city. After Boromir had left, everything had started to fade out around him, the world outside his own thoughts becoming dim and quiet. When he did feel anything at all, it was the pain of his father's demise, his madness, his final betrayal. But even those scars seemed to fade away into the nothingness that surrounded him, here in the bland white comfort of the Houses of Healing.

But then… Then there was _her_…

She had been unexpected.

Her intrusion into his room, his garden, his world, should have been but a mild irritation.

And yet… Somehow she had begun to seep into his consciousness, a blight on his mind, but more than that, she made his stomach ache and his skin tingle with warmth. The feelings were unwelcome, now that he had become so accustomed to his numbness.

He knew what it was he was beginning to feel, of course, but it was so strange that it should come to him now, on the eve of destruction, long after he had given up hoping for such a thing to befall him.

Boromir would have laughed at him. _His_ _melancholy younger brother…_

_Even when he comes upon something new and exciting, he approaches it with such caution – suspicion, even. _

Faramir smiled. Boromir had always been able to mock him out of his deep, introverted musings, encouraging him to open up and speak his mind in a way that no one else ever could. Boromir was the only one who had ever really _known _him, who understood him and accepted him, in spite of their great differences of character.

How he missed the comfort of his brothers smile, the strong hand that grasped his shoulder when their father had been particularly cutting.

The scraps of memory were as tangible as a physical thing he could have reached out and touched.

Faramir still felt lost in this new world, without him.

_She_ was lost too, that was what first touched him about her. The despair and uncertainty in her eyes was familiar to him, though he thought that he was better at hiding it.

The question of _why _she came to him still burned, but it seemed less important now, after last night.

How afraid she had seemed as she had stood there before him in her nightshirt – she would not thank him for noticing, but he had. She had been trembling as he pressed his face to her skin – _why?_ She had come to him - _more than once_ - and yet she was all confusion and alarm when he responded to her presence.

Had it been wrong, to… respond to her like that? Of course it had. He had hardly known what he was doing; he had acted on some bizarre impulse from within, wanting to make contact with her. He had not been aggressive, but she had run from his room again, as though burned.

Had he offended her, insulted her, repulsed her?

_But she came to me…_

After she'd gone he had sunk down onto his bed, quivering slightly, thinking he would go mad at the fleeting sensation of her. But soon after he had closed his eyes and slept a deep, dreamless sleep that had done him good.

Boromir would have known how to explain these feelings to him; he had had experience with women (though _she_ was like no other woman Faramir had met). At the very least he would have laughed at Faramir until the enigma troubled him less.

As it was, Faramir would have to puzzle through all of this alone.

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End file.
